


Sleep Tight, Paul. We'll Miss You.

by ThePrincePeach



Series: The corpse in the corner begins to weep at what was taken from him. [1]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Corpse Desecration, Ghosts, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gross, Mike and Jeremy only come in at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22669249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePrincePeach/pseuds/ThePrincePeach
Summary: The corpse, or what was left of it, was recovered in the summer after the person was missing for nearly half of a year.
Series: The corpse in the corner begins to weep at what was taken from him. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815121
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Sleep Tight, Paul. We'll Miss You.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gross story about a ghost, his body, and his corpse. Reader beware. 
> 
> My phone guy is named Paul, by the way!

The corpse, or what was left of it, was recovered in the summer after the person was missing for nearly half of a year. 

The basement was dark, there were a few rooms branching off from the main room and were labelled and used as storage. Some held boxes, some held parts, some held others. The rooms were so dark, it was so hard to tell what held what. One door was heavy – it was thick, and bolted, with large locks and sliding pieces to keep it closed. There was a slot in the door, no less than six inches tall. It was thin, one could just barely fit their arm through if not their shoulder. The slot was too far to reach the knob or the locking latch, barely even peeking the fingertips over the edges of the monstrous door. The room seemed to have its own kind of darkness, a kind so the pitch-like, sight was a joke. The air was stale and rancid, the distant sound of flies buzzing off in the corner. 

In the corner was the corpse. It leaned against the wall with its head hanging low, one arm lying a few inches away while the other barely held onto the shoulder and draped over the lap. It looked more like a ragdoll thrown into the corner and somehow sitting up, more so than a person. The hands were broken beyond any medical expertise, the fingers mangled and some missing. The nails were removed, not all a clean removal, leaving the raw flesh beneath to be exposed. There was no calmness to the expression as to be familiar with the ease of death, there was misery on the face. The sunken, rotting cheeks and eyes, the mouth hanging open and a space missing where the tongue once sat. The teeth quite yellow and brown and grey, some lodged down the throat and others somewhere missing. The eyes were fish-like, glassy and empty and staring off to something not yet visible. The flesh was rotting, infested with maggots and flies and other hungry beasts of multiple legs that found the carcass more appetizing than the pizza. There were glasses tossed at the body, it seemed, by how they sat further off and broken. Locks of its hair were whiteish in colour, some still clinging to the greying scalp while others were fallen onto the shoulders and lap. 

It would be a corpse, and yet, somehow, the belly and chest were quite bloated. Swollen, it squirmed past the skin. The squelching of movement sounded out past the flies and something moved within. 

It was named Paul, the corpse, that is. 

The innards were easy to tear through, they were nothing much more than rotten apples to eat through. Mush, with spots of tender meats, the bugs provided most of the crunch that most apples carried. The flesh, though, the flesh held some resistance that was harder to fight through when escaping from the inside out. The nails made it easier if he still had nails, that was. His hand was the first piece to escape, fingers splaying out into the stale air and feeling. Just feeling. The air, the stillness, the flies curiously buzzing and then finding interest elsewhere. A deeply brown, and red, and splotches of yellow slime oozed from the palm and down the wrist. The hand sunk back in.

Hands crept out in trembling, twitching actions, fingers gripping onto whatever they could. They gripped the newly formed hole in its abdomen and pushed. When the hole grew to a more comfortable size, he continued outwards. His hands reached back out and grasped at the floor. Broken joints and cracked nails, digging into the tiles until they crackled further. The cracking was sickening and wet, a grotesque noise that echoed in the hidden little room. Crammed away like a broken toy, forgotten among the dust bunnies and crumbs. Another hand jutted outward from the darkness and grabbed another fistful of the ground. And pulled. His hands were deathly pale, littered in bruises so deep they were purple and yellow in colour. Ugly bouquets of black and blue and purple, blotches floating under his skin. His wrists were mangled yet somehow seemed to stay together to his already ruined hands. It took so much force and energy just to pull. And pull. From the corpse’s belly, a head of greasy blond curls seeped out, the head bowed and twitching and shaking in an inhumane way. The bodies trembled and twitched as one fought for freedom from the other. The corpse made no move to keep him in yet didn’t offer any means to make it easier. 

Crackling, cracking, things fell in and out of place while managing to keep in the weakened sack of flesh he duly called his new body. Something dragged behind him. He collapsed to his chest and laid there for a moment, shoulders and chest rising and falling in shaky, artificial breaths. As he “breathed”, if it could ever be called that, purring ringing sounded out. Every breath was laboured and wet, choking, strangling. The way he moved, pushing himself up, his head seemed too heavy and lulled about on the floor as he tried to get up.

His body inched along the floor, grasping at the ground in an attempt to pull himself further. The basement. That dreaded hell. It all looked so different? Was he forgotten already? Did anyone mourn for him? His brother? His father? His friends? Surely someone should have found the body by now. It fought so hard to keep the soul within, yet the soul fought harder to free itself from that festering hole of rot called his corpse. A cesspool of hatred and pain, seeping into every pore, every opened wound, in his mouth and eyes and ears and nose. It was Hell. It was his own Hell.

He heard the wet squelches of his exit, the corpse behind him slumped lazily against the corner. Locked away. All that pain burrowing into the soul, an amalgamation of anger and sorrow, of searing pain and hatred. 

He rolled onto his hip to give the corpse an angry kick, digging the heel into the already hanging jaw, to free his other leg from the belly. The corpse jolted back harshly with the kick and the back of the head hit the wall hard enough for a ‘crack’ and a ‘splat’ to resound around the little room. Leaving a trail of brown and red slime, it uselessly fell to the side and remained there. He wanted to kick it again, and again, and reduce the pathetic thing to mash in the corner. He wanted to rip it apart and eat away at whatever was left. He was hungry, he was so hungry. The insides weren’t enough. It wasn’t enough. The thing couldn’t help himself. He moved to a sitting position and snatched up the discarded arm tightly. 

His jaw lowered and teeth sunk into tender, cold flesh. Digging into the meat and ripping, his head snapping to the side with the meat still caught between his teeth, the ooze leaking past the bloodied, bruised lips and down his chin. His head tilted and rolled as he began to eat the corpse. His corpse. His flesh. His blood had congealed into a rotten, stale gel. It tasted awful, yet better than the innards. He was hunched over the feast, eyes unblinking, yet not staring, wide and full of hunger and desperation. He was so hungry. So very hungry. His mouth was filled with cold slush, of meat, of bugs. Creeping down his throat and past his teeth, his severed tongue lapping at whatever bled out to catch every piece. It dribbled down his chin, down his throat, staining his already filthy and torn shirt. 

He didn’t stop until he was at the bones and even chewed on them for a while to get it all. He wanted to break the bones and suck out the marrow, gain every little drop, every little nutrient. He wanted to chew the bones until they splintered, and he could swallow the shards. The arm was soon nothing but bones and the parts he couldn’t bite or suck off. 

His eyes were drawn to the light seeping from under the heavy door and the rotten meat trapped between his lips fell out and into his lap. He blinked a few times. That door. The door. The door. The Devil was behind that door, the Devil trapped him in here. He knew he couldn’t walk and yet, he tried anyway. Using the walls, gripping onto them until his fingers cracked again, he moved away. 

“You’re not getting out of here,” something suddenly stated, causing Paul to hesitantly look back, the corpse smiled back at him, “We’re never leaving here.” Paul glared icy daggers at the cadaver and turned his attention back to the wall. Tugging himself upwards, laboured, he managed to his feet. He took his first step away from it, and then another.

“I… Am… Not… You…” His voice was hoarse, growling before speaking, and choking it out. “I… Am… Free…” 

The corpse stood up without issue, only needing the floor to support itself to a standing position. What was left of the chewed up and eaten insides spilt out in a grotesque display, splattering onto the floor in a newly formed puddle of cold blood. Paul nearly slipped on a partially devoured kidney but managed to keep going. He used the wall for much-needed support, his eyes locked onto that Hellish door. He did not dare look back again. 

“Are you?” It cooed so sweetly, so innocently, Paul loathed that tone. It took a step forward, stepping through what was left of the organs on the floor. It took another step, then another. It kept itself far enough to cause panic in Paul, yet never caught up. It was toying with him, so slow behind, yet not slow enough to pause or ever stop moving. A cat finding a mouse and tenderizing it with its own sick games. The corpse was dragging something with it, he realized upon hearing the plastic clanging against the floor. He didn’t want to know what. 

He urged himself forward, stumbling and staggering, yet gripped the wall as tightly as he could with broken fingers. Paul couldn’t help himself, he let out a cry once he stumbled badly enough to end up on his knees and then his hands. A cry of pity, of anger, of pain, of fury. Of desperation. He pushed himself still, thinking he had no time to rise back to his feet to move away from this eaten corpse. The corpse, in response, laughed again. 

“Crawl away little mouse man.” It giggled in pure delight, watching him crawl to get closer to the door and further from the corpse. It continued to stay behind him by a few feet, never getting closer, never getting further. “Isn’t that what they called you? Mouse man? Hiding in the dark?” 

“Leave me… Alone!” Paul wailed, his voice cracking and something splattering out from past his lips. Tears rose and bubbled down his cheeks and stung his eyes. 

The door was cold, colder than anything he had ever felt before. Impossibly cold, really. It froze his fingertips to the metal for a moment before he yanked them away. He slammed his palm against the door, crying out frantically. The corpse laughed as it drew closer to him, and closer. The laughter echoed around the room and bounced off every wall, the floor, the ceiling, bounced around in his skull and out through his own screaming. He screamed. And he screamed. And he hit the door with everything he could muster. He heard the breaking of his broken bones, he heard the crackling of his cracked fingers. He felt things shifting and squirming under his flesh. His head twitched and his body shook, sobbing and screaming with some unknown form of hysteria he didn’t know he had. He wanted out. His enclosed fists pounded against the door with a cocktail of anger and fear and desperation. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair at all. Why did he deserve this? He didn’t deserve this. He was just hungry, he was hungry, he was so hungry, he wanted to eat. The feeling of meat between his teeth was driving him mad. He felt maggots wriggling in his belly and down his throat, he screamed and flies flew out. 

The slot in the door opened. 

Paul’s arm shoved its way out before he could register what was happening, flailing and grasping at the air of the basement. His fingers scraped against the metal and he screamed. And he screamed. And he laughed. And he cried. And he screamed. Someone else was screaming. Why were they screaming? 

“HELP ME!”  
“HELP ME!!”  
“HE’S GONNA’ KILL ME!!” 

The corpse was getting closer. Paul’s heart was racing in his chest. He was going to die. Paul screamed. He reached out for Mike, desperate and hysteric. Mike fell back in fear. The man wept as hands grabbed at him. 

He was pulled back too quickly and the slot slammed shut. 

“I DON’T WANNA’ DIE!”  
“STOP IT! LET GO!”  
“IT HURTS! IT HURTS! ITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSITHURTSITHURTS--!!” 

…

Mike was found by Jeremy, curled up in a tight little ball against the wall of the basement, his eyes wide and a dull, milky film over them and tears dribbling from them – staring at the metal door with the slot in it. Mike didn’t speak, he just stared at the door. Jeremy, worried, managed to call for help and help the youth leave the basement. Someone chalked it down to the kid got curious.

Jeremy, naturally, looked to the door. He was taller than Mike, he could easily see into the slot. Frowning, he pulled out the flashlight and shined it in. 

He wished he didn’t.

…

Paul’s corpse, or what was left of it, was recovered in the summer after being missing for nearly a half of a year.


End file.
